Since The Return From His Stay On The Moon
by BenedictScumberbatch
Summary: John didn't know what to think. But then again, it was never his job to think. It was Sherlock's job to think. It was John's job to FEEL.
1. Last Words

John was sitting in his chair. He looked troubled, but Sherlock was too busy with his own worries to figure out why the doctor seemed down. Too soon, Sherlock thought. Far too soon.

A cloud rolled over the sun. The natural light in the room dulled, casting a dreary feeling over the two men. It was dull. It was boring. But for once, Sherlock did not care.

It was warm in the room, hot even, and as Sherlock paced back and forth, lost in thought and anxious, his hair clung stickily to his forehead. His coat snapped behind him with each about-face, still on his shoulders since the cooler morning. He ran a hand through his damp hair harshly, gritting his teeth in a frustrated snarl.

He say down rather abruptly, on the floor in the middle of the living room.

"What are you doing, Sherlock?" John asked, sounding worn, but not confused, as though he was only asking to humor Sherlock. And perhaps he was.

Sherlock swung his head around to look at John, meeting his eyes and looking once more to the floor.

"This is just something that I needed to do," he answered, and when he said it, he knew it was true. He felt somehow better, and also worse, but more at ease.

Sherlock rolled onto his side, long limbs sprawled in all directions. John sighed, a strange mix of sadness and relief.

Sherlock continued to think lazily. He knew he had to do something, but he didn't know what, and at the moment, he wasn't trying as hard as he knew he should be. His head rested on his bent arm, staring a single ant crawling along mightily, near his shoed right foot. He felt like the ant. Alone, and forced to be brave for the sake of his colony. A little colony he had, but it was good.

The ant crawled her way up his shoe, and he sat upright. John stood up and walked out of the room. Sherlock watched the ant. She looked around, twitching her antennas as if in search of something. She climbed higher, slipping on the polish. She traveled over his laces, and still Sherlock watched, aware that he was wasting time. But what could he do? Other than just be still and accept what must happen.

The ant was now almost at the hem of his trouser leg. He reached down, shifting to a cross legged position, and flicked the ant. She landed a few inches away, angry and confused, rushing back to conquer her shoe mountain. Sherlock let her get close to his shoe, and when she was almost upon it, he moved his foot, bringing his knees to his chin. The ant tried again, frustrated and desperate, and this time he let her touch it, enough to give her hope, to little for her to grab hold. He lifted his foot up and stepped on the ant.

Yes. Sherlock felt like the ant. Exactly like the ant.

He rolled onto his stomach, tracing circles in the thin layer of floor dust.

John walked back in. He stopped. He stood for a moment, before taking a seat in Sherlock's chair.

"Still on the floor?" John asked, slightly curious.

Sherlock hummed. Indeed. He was still on the floor. It was cooler down there, he noticed, although the air was thicker, and dusty.

"Any particular reason?" John pressed.

"No," Sherlock lied, rolling onto his back. He watched John with the corner of his eye.

"Alright then," John said, giving up.

Sherlock stared at the ceiling, watching bits of dust float around. Rain, beginning to fall, rattled on the window, and Sherlock felt like the rain. Little drops slid down the glass, slowly, and then quickly, lost forever in a puddle or sucked up into a thirsty blade of grass.

Sherlock stood up in one swift movement, sending up a shower of dust. John coughed and glared at Sherlock, and Sherlock frowned. He hated dirt. And he was now covered in it. He brushed as much as he could off of his coat, filling the air with more tiny particles.

Sherlock didn't know what to do. But he knew what he was going to do right now.

He walked to the bathroom, shedding his now-dirty clothes as he went.

He stood in front of the mirror, looking at himself. His eyes caught sight of something, and he looked down at a black eyeliner pencil. He remembered using it for a case, once, but right now he didn't need it.

Sherlock picked it up, running his thumb over the smooth black tip. A line formed, thick and sharp over his pale skin. He studied it, rubbing his forefinger against the dark mark, smearing it. His fingers turned a smokey grey, and he dragged them over the side of his face. A smudgey black shape formed, and an idea popped into Sherlock's strange mind.

He took the pencil, breaking of the tip and rubbing it between his hands. He spat in his hands, to make it thinner, and covered his hands in the stuff.

He pressed his thumb onto the mirror, dragging and twisting it, and began writing. He rotated between fingers, rubbing his hands together when needed. The writing was grimy and slick, but it was legible, and obviously Sherlock's scrawl, and he knew John would see it eventually. He hoped he would understand.

-.-.-.-.-

John's face was sticky and moist and unpleasant. He did not care. His vision blurred. His eyes stung of salt. He did not care. His knees where raw and bleeding his hands were scrapped. He did not care. He didn't care about anything.

John angrily wiped a tear away with the back of his hand. He was angry at the tear for being there. He was angry at himself. Not for crying, though. He was angry at the world, and he was angry at everyone and everything. But more than anything, he was hurt.

Just hours ago he had been talking to Sherlock, his best friend. He had made a joke about the ant that he had seen crawling around in the living room, saying that Mrs Hudson would go mad if there was an infestation. Sherlock had even cracked a smile, and everything had been... right.

But now it was was wrong. All wrong. Now he was alone. Now it was him, and only him, against the world. And he would never see his best friend again. Ever. No more late nights of violin music. No more early morning case-solving. No more experiments and bloody heads in the refrigerator, no more emergency milk shopping trips. No more boredom fits or insults to John's intellect. No more danger. No more. Not any longer.

It was funny, really fucking funny, the things you miss most about people. The things you wish they never did are often the things you learn to love in a person. But all too soon, the clock will strike midnight (because happiness can never last for some) and your world will come crashing down as the thing you care about is ripped from your heart and thrown on the pavement of agony and regret, guilt and not enough time. There's never enough time, yet now, at this moment, John thought his utter misery would never end, that time would stretch to infinity and consume him until all he knew was the throbbing of his broken heart which still beats within his chest, until he was surrounded with the pain that flowed through his blood like sharpe knives, until he drowned in the regrets and the what-ifs that haunted his nightmares in the day and his dreams in the night, until he was filled to the brim and over with self-loathing and an empty future. Until he was so far gone, he wouldn't recognize his own face in the mirror, until all he would see when he gazed into the bleak eyes of his reflection was the hopelessness of loss and the life that should have been.

Not his own life. The life of a great man, no hero to the world, but a hero to John. To the truest friend anyone could have, to the one man John could trust with his own life. To the most irritating man John had ever known, and to the man that had grown to be John's very best friend. To the one and only Sherlock Holmes.

And so he wept. He wept bitterly. Not for the loss of the worlds greatest hero but for the loss of the hero he needed. And he allowed himself that much. He allowed himself to cry, because although Sherlock viewed sentiment as a weakness, John saw it as the greatest form of strength.

John was back at the flat. He hesitated. If he went inside, he would only be reminded of what he had lost. He trembled at the thought, biting his lip because it was something he could feel when all else had faded to an aching numbness. He closed his eyes. He had to do this. He would be strong. He lifted his hand to the doorknob.

He couldn't. He wanted to, but he couldn't. He did it anyway. He looked at all the things scattered around the room. He had always wanted it to be neat and tidy, but now he couldn't bear it if it was not a royal mess. He was only just barely holding himself together now.

The room was still dusty, although there was a big, Sherlock-sized spot of clean floor, right by the ant.

The ant, John thought bitterly. Was dead. The ant that had as much right to life as him, or Sherlock, was dead and John broke. He broke into a million tiny pieces, so small they no longer hurt. He threw himself on the floor, sobbing for himself, for Sherlock, and for the ant. He stood up and punched the damn smiley face on the wall. Why did the ant have to be dead?

John stopped. He wasn't okay. He knew he wasn't okay, and that was alright. But he couldn't carry on like this. He would grieve, he would certainly grieve, but as he felt his hand bleed, he knew he had to calm down for this one moment.

He went to the bathroom. He needed cold water on his face.

He turned the faucet on all the way, freezing water gushing out like the bitterness of John's freezing heart. He cupped some in his hands, feeling them go pleasantly numb.

He ducked his face in, without hesitating, and waited as long as he could stand. He let the water drip from his face, tap still running, and looked up to meet the dead eyes of the man who had once been himself but was now a stranger in the mirror that was wearing his clothes.

He didn't expect to find thick black letters, Sherlock's letters, written on the mirror. He clenched his teeth and growled ferally as he read them.

_I am not afraid to keep on living. _

What the fuck did that even mean? How could Sherlock do this to him? He was going through hell and this is what he gets. Was Sherlock just trying to rub salt in the wound? Well it wasn't fucking funny, not this time. Not this time.

John leaned his head against the wall, breathing heavily. He was a mess. He was utterly lost and he had no one to tell him exactly what was on his mind. He had never felt so useless. He shook with tears and voiceless cries, wrapping his arms around him self in some semblance of comfort. He was loosing his damn mind from all of this, and he felt dizzy and sick.

He fell asleep, there in the bathroom, on the cold floor, and he had never slept so well.

When he woke, his eyes were grainy, like they were filled with sand, and his head hurt. He looked at the ceiling, wondering why he was on the floor. Then the reality hit him like a lightning bolt, and he looked again to the writing on the mirror.

But he read it differently this time.

Sherlock never did anything without a reason, and if this was some sick joke, then surely Sherlock would stick around long enough to laugh at it. Sherlock was trying to tell him something.

John's first thought was that Sherlock was still alive, and this was his way of saying I'm still around, just not here, not yet. But John pushed that away. He had seen Sherlock's body. He was dead, and nothing could change that.

John stared at the words and he felt better. This was Sherlock telling John to stay strong, to keep on, even if Sherlock could not. It was a message of hope, it have John a future. Sherlock wanted him to move on with his life, and not be stuck in a hole of his own misery. Sherlock wanted John to be happy.

And John smiled.


	2. Too Afraid To Fly (Never Did Land)

Sherlock looked into the London horizon, watching the cars like beetles crawl by with a rush of wind and a buzz of an engine. It was a demented sort of peaceful, but Sherlock felt eerily calm, in a strange, untouchable way. But he knew he had to act fast.

He lifted his face to the evening sky, something he had looked at a thousand times, but something about today made him really see it. The sun was just starting to set, and Sherlock was alone enough to appreciate it. He blinked, and wondered at exactly which point in the sky did it fade from blue to orange, from orange to pink, and just how far away was the place where the ground touched the sky.

Sherlock shifted his feet until his toes peeked over the edge of the roof. He stared down, looking at the people walking along, minding their own business without a care, and he wondered if he would be happier if he was like them, boring and ordinary.

Since Sherlock was a little boy, he had wanted to fly. He had watched birds with envy, defying gravity with a graceful flap of the wings. He had wanted to be that free, with the carless joy of the wind itself, to go wherever it may take him, and he would simply enjoy the ride. But he was not a bird. And he had no wings.

So as Sherlock looked at the ground so far below, he wondered if he had finally gotten his chance to fly. After all, flying is rather simple. Jump and miss the ground. That's all there was to it. Take a leap, and let yourself soar.

But this wasn't flying. This was falling. Flying was peaceful, with the wind tugging your hair and whistling past your ears. Falling, though, was terrifying. The drop made your heart leap into your mouth. The plunge made your head throb in fear. The plummet made the ground rush up to meet you, made your courage of iron turn to crumbling rust, made your eyes close as you waited for your body to hit, bracing yourself for the inevitable shattering of bones and splintering of skin, for the warm trickle of blood from your broken body, for the pain like fireworks flooding through every inch, until the final quite. It was that nothingness that scared you the most.

But for Sherlock, there was something even worse. He could face death. He wasn't afraid of it, for it was only through death that his mind would truly be at rest. He wasn't afraid of living, either. He enjoyed life, in his own way, and there was just so much left it to leave it all behind. No, Sherlock was not afraid, not of life, not of death, for neither could truly hurt him.

He was afraid, in part, of himself, or rather, what he had to do. But that couldn't change the path fate had chosen for him, and he swallowed his fear, not for his own sake, and took that step, watching with a curious peace the petrified eyes of the only one he could truly call friend.

And for one brief moment, he knew what it meant to be wind, how it felt to be sky. And he knew what it was like to fall. And he felt utterly defeated.

When Sherlock woke, he knew nothing. And he thought of John. John, who would by now be feeling lonely. He had probably cried, although Sherlock wished he wouldn't. It wasn't worth the little drops of water that fell from that familiar face.

Sherlock wondered if John had found his message yet, and if he had, did he know? There was no way he knew, and Sherlock was both saddened and relieved.

-.-.-.-.-

John was reading a book. Well, he was staring at the words. He didn't know what any of it had said, and he didn't even care to know the title.

His eyes felt moist, and he muttered a curse, too weary even to wipe the dampness from them. He sighed, dropping the book to the floor with a soft thud. He hung his head in his hands, heels digging into his eye sockets.

He was tired, so tired, and sleep evaded him, dancing at the tip of his eyelids, only to pull away with gleeful smirk as he reached out, longing for the embrace of darkness and the escape from the reality that was his life of broken scraps and unfilled potholes.

He didn't want to exist, not like this, and he didn't want to die. Not when Sherlock had given him the tiniest flame of hope, subtle, but enough. It would have to be.

He picked the book back up, reading it and imagining, in a fit of mischief, the young hero to be a tall, eccentric detective with curly hair, if only to lessen the pain he felt, yet did not feel. The dull ache of a broken-healing heart.

-.-.-.-.-

Sherlock had never known how much John meant to him. He had never really thought about it. John had just been there. Always. Whenever, wherever, and whatever Sherlock needed, John was there. Even if he was painfully dull, he was still John, and Sherlock knew, now more than ever, that he needed him.

And Sherlock realized, acutely, that he never expressed his appreciation, even for the little things. John didn't have to make him tea. But he did. John didn't have to stay, even when everyone else left. But he did. John didn't have to tolerate Sherlock's strange habits and arrogant temper. But he did. He did, and Sherlock never even said thank you. And now, he couldn't. Not yet.

He had ruined things to fix them. He knew it was the wrong thing, but it was the only thing, and his lone solace was in those little black words had dried and cracked on the mirror.

He hoped that John wasn't falling to pieces, as ordinary people had a tendency to do, and for the first time in a long time, Sherlock felt the cold pang of loneliness.


	3. The Arms Of A Moment

John woke, nearly screaming. His face was cold, his body numb. His eyes were wet and his lips were dry. He felt haunted and worn. And tired. So very tired. He wanted to lay his head back down, and close his weepy eyes and sleep, just sleep. But he could not.

He could not because he was afraid. He was afraid that the now familiar vision would haunt his dreams once more, hanging over his head like a dark grey sky, ready to pour cold emotion like water down his back and down his heart.

He had tried to stop thinking about it. He had tried to forget. But he found that he could not look away. No matter how much he tried to block it, he would always be stuck seeing Sherlock on top of that building, his body falling slowly, so slowly, to the pavement, and there was blood, so much blood. And then he was gone.

This time, as John slept, he was once again on the phone, having that dreaded call and listening again to that once familiar voice, the one that he knew by heart, yet could not quite recall. As he looked up, he saw Sherlock standing on the rooftop, and his heart sunk like lead, as it always did, with the aching knowledge of what was going to happen. His friend was going to leave him. Forever.

Yet, as John looked up and made eye contact with Sherlock, he saw something in his sleep that he had never seen in wakefulness. Sherlock's eyes, while normally bright and clear, were red and glassy. They were shining with pain and tears, and John couldn't take how _broken _he looked.

And John had woken, feeling his own dull pain mixed with the fresh agony of his dead friend's. And he realized how much this must have hurt Sherlock as well. That even though he pretended he didn't care, didn't feel, John knew.

And even after all this time, John's mind was still filled with thoughts of his friend, his very best friend. Sometimes, John felt like the only one, the only one who actually remembered. As though Sherlock was forgotten by the world, lost inside John's memory.

Of course the world knew about Sherlock. The famous detective who had killed himself. That's what he would be remembered for, what would go down in history.

But John was not the world. He was one man, one man who had known Sherlock and had seen the truth. The real Sherlock Holmes, who had killed himself not because he had been a fake, but because... John didn't know why. He didn't know, and he couldn't figure it out.

Sometimes, he wished he could have picked up on Sherlock's deduction skills, even just a tiny bit, at least to know why his friend had left him like this. But he hadn't, and in a way, he was glad of that fact. No one could replace Sherlock Holmes. And no one would try.

And as John dragged himself from day to day, he felt awful. Ruined and reduced to dust in an old room, one that hadn't been used in years, or maybe even a lifetime. And some days, he found it easier. Like he didn't feel the pain. But mostly, he wanted to feel the pain, for he felt that the only way to loose it would be to forget, to forget Sherlock entirely, and he could not do that, for he knew that would only hurt worse.

And as the days dragged on, time seemed to fly. A year had already passed, and John often looked up, expecting to see the familiar face of his friend, and yet each time he didn't, he was not surprised, and he felt a pain in his heart just a bit more harsh and dull than the last.

John felt empty inside, like the little flat that held so many memories, that now sat alone and untouched, still in its place on Baker Street. He felt like a hallway that had endured years of disuse, like a home broken by the pain of loss and tears like the frost on a window and on John's heart. He felt hollow, like a rock beaten and worn from a lifetime of crashing waves and eroding agony.

Sometimes John felt like shutting the world out. He would be better off alone and lost than with others, as he would only drag then down as well. He didn't want them to see him, because it was just too hard to pretend he wasn't dead inside. And as the world around him kept on turning, and the days passed by in a series of lights and darks, John felt just as empty and trapped as he had the moment he saw Sherlock's body hit the ground.

John felt like he had been abandoned, like a child that had come home to an empty house, alone and afraid. And John wondered if that was how Sherlock felt.

John had his scars. Physically, as well as mentally. And he knew Sherlock had had his own. And some scars, John knew, were shared between the two of them, and stretched the gap between their two bodies and two hearts, and connected them in ways neither of them fully understood. It was supposed to be the two of them facing the cruel world together, but now it was only John, and he felt as though a new wound had formed in his heart, and that the bridge had fallen to pieces.

John felt like each day became less real than the last, as if he was living in some kind of horrible fog that both existed and did not. He felt as though Sherlock's tale of a brilliant mind and a fenced-in heart of gold would be remembered simply as a nice story, or a lie. And John felt the weight if the truth on his shoulders every day, and he did not know what to do.

Yet, with the chipped words that were still clinging to the mirror, John resolved to live, each moment passing by like a lifetime, but he did not give up. He would look ahead and bravely face tomorrow, no matter how much it hurt. Each moment, familiar and new, would be lived because he was not dead, and he was only just beginning to see the true value of life. So no, he would not look away, would not forget the time he spent with the man that would continue to be his best friend, even in death.


	4. Heaven Is Overrated

Sherlock Holmes was dreaming.

He was cold, so very cold, and he shivered as he fumbled through his wardrobe for something warm to wear. In his dream-reality, he could hear John loudly complaining about the freezing weather, and Sherlock wondered if it would be worth the humiliation to wear one of John's godawful sweaters. They did seem pretty warm, and Sherlock was so cold, his fingers were numb. Which was highly unacceptable.

He strode to John's room, without knocking, and grabbed the least embarrassing sweater he could find, pulling to over his head. The sleeves were a bit short, but it would do. Sherlock still felt cold, however.

He glanced at a clock that had never been on John's nightstand in the waking world, seeing that it was 11:39. That couldn't be right. John had just woken up, and he never slept late. Sherlock glanced at the clock again, but this time it was 12:42. He shrugged it off, and walked out of John's room.

When he passed through the doorway, he found himself at St Bart's, and it wasn't strange at all, but he was still shaking and his nose felt frozen. Sherlock brought his hands to his face, cupping them over his mouth and exhaling, hoping his warm breath would unthaw his fingers.

It didn't, and he nearly collided with Molly. She opened her mouth, like she was going to say something, but instead she just stared, lips parted slightly, and watched with a strangely keen and penetrating gaze. Sherlock looked around, trying to follow her gaze and find out what had captured her attention, but he found, with mild alarm, that she was looking at him with that indescribable look.

Sherlock was not one to be afraid often, and certainly not of something so plain as this. But something about the knowing look on Molly's face, made him feel dizzy and exposed, like she could see through his skin and into his very being.

Sherlock tried to speak, to say anything to stop her from looking at him like that, but he could make no sound, and all his lips would utter was a silent dream-rasp, communicating nothing. It only added to his sense of dread, and he felt on the verge of panic.

But then Molly's face relaxed, returning to the soft expression Sherlock was used to. Before Sherlock could feel relieved, she whispered, lowly and urgently, but Sherlock could not make out the words, and that scared him even more. He knew it was important. He leaned forward, desperate to catch even a single word, but he could not. Soon, Molly was shouting, and he still could not tell what she was saying, and suddenly she was screaming his name, looking into his eyes with a look of terror in its purest form.

Sherlock Holmes woke up.

He was cold, so very cold, and he shivered as he rolled over on the hard, sharp pavement. His back hurt and his neck was stiff, and his cheek stung.

He touched his face, pulling away red fingers. He shook himself to get rid of the cobwebs of sleep, and glanced down. A shard of broken glass, stained with vermillion blood, his blood, was under the place his head had rested. He swiped at his wound with the back of his wrist, cleaning most of the blood from his face.

Sherlock was miserable. He was not bored, he didn't have the time or energy to be bored, and he wasn't in unbearable pain. He knew he should be rather proud of himself for what he had managed to do so far, in one short yet infinite year. But he was not. He didn't feel much of anything inside. His heart felt just as numb as his fingers, and he didn't have the will to be upset over it.

With each passing day, Sherlock found himself thinking more and more about Baker Street, about John and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson. About home. Yet he knew he could not go back yet.

Often, far too often, Sherlock felt himself wondering how John was coping. He knew it would be hard, unimaginably so, but he knew John was had more strength than he could possibly put words to. As much as he hoped John was alright, that he was taking care of himself and not hurting too badly, Sherlock was also terrified that John would forget about him, would find life to be easier and better without him, it worst of all, that John would refuse to forgive him. But Sherlock didn't want to think about that, not now, not yet.

As Sherlock picked himself up of the ground, feeling weary and worn and less rested than before he had slept, he wondered how much longer this would take, and how many more days of this he could bear before he couldn't do it anymore, before he broke entirely. He felt, right now, that he was already dangerously close to his limit. And he would remind himself, day after day, of those guns that had been pointed at the only people he had ever grown to care about, and he knew he could not stop until he saw this through.

And sometimes Sherlock wondered, dryly, whether or not anyone truly believed he had faked his detective work. Part of him, a very superficial part indeed, hoped they had not, that they, especially John, remembered him as he had really been, without the lies. And sometimes Sherlock would remember that he had told them to believe he was a fake, had told John to tell everyone who would listen that he had staged all of his cases. And sometimes he wished he hadn't, but he knew he had done what he had to. And he supposed it was good enough.

He wondered, often, if John ever visited his grave and what he said. Was he angry? Was he sad? Had he moved on? Or did he not even bother? Had he forgotten? Had he decided that it wasn't worth it, that Sherlock wasn't worth it?

He had heard John the first time, the only time, and it had pained him to hold back and say nothing, to pretend he didn't notice. And he knew that at the time, John was hurting, and the wounds had still been fresh. But now... well things can change over a year.

Sherlock just hoped that John thought of him as much as he though of John.

And what Sherlock wouldn't have give for a nice hot cup of tea right now. He might've even kissed Anderson for it, if he'd had the chance. He couldn't remember the last time he had eaten, and while that would not normally bother him, his hunger was to the point of it weakening his body and mind, and he was thinner than he had ever been in his life, and cold.

Sherlock decided that he didn't like being dead. It was boring, and, quite frankly, lonely. Maybe, once this was all over, he just wouldn't die. He would just refuse death and live forever, and hopefully he wouldn't become too bored.


	5. Sometimes Goodbye's the Only Way

**A/N: I'd like to give a big thank you to lovebites123, mikochan, rora, and BlindViolinist for your amazing feedback. It's such an inspiration to keep writing. And yes, the story title is from Drops of Jupiter by Train :)**

Since Sherlock had been gone, John had learned to love the sky. He loved the beautiful blue sky, with bright, clean clouds that floated by on billowed sails. He loved the pale, overcast sky with stormy grey clouds and little drops of water. He loved the brilliant orange and scarlet sunset, hazy and purple and beautiful. But what he loved most was the night sky. The infinite night, dark and deep.

And he loved the stars. The little specks of light against a shadow-painted sky. They had always been beautiful to him, lovely in their cold, wavering light, but shining, always shining. Now they gave

him hope. Hope that someday, if he kept on shining, things would get better. That was what he loved about the stars. That even on days where the clouds his them from his sight, they were there, with him, until the end of time.

Many times, John would find himself looking up, face lifted to the heavens, just watching. Some days, he would watch for hours as the clouds danced in the sky, as the sun rose to a zenith and began its downward trip. As the sky shifted into warmer hues of red and gold, and the clouds hung low, soft and gentle. And then, the sky became a thick blue, something so boundless and mysterious that he could not take his eyes away. It was a color that could be felt, almost physically and certainly in his heart. And when all light faded, when the moon rose and the night had fully descended, John would smile. It was then that he saw the stars, his stars, and was reminded that even when the darkness is absolute, light will always shine, and carry you on until tomorrow.

Tomorrow. That's what John longed for. For tomorrow was different, new. Yesterday was a painful sting, and today a dull ache, but tomorrow... No one ever knows what tomorrow is. And it was a small comfort.

But today, as John watched the sky, his thoughts, as they so often did, turned once more to Sherlock. The man who observed, but never saw.

Now, the sky was not beautiful. It was not blue or red or black. It was grey. To John, it was sadness. Sadness, for Sherlock could not see the same sky. Even if he had still been living, he would look at it, and think nothing. But John was not like Sherlock. He was cursed to never stop thinking.

And John thought it was so funny, for Sherlock had said the same about him many times, but it had not been the same. Sherlock thought about facts, always analyzing and calculating. John thought about so much more. He worried, he stressed, he laughed and smiled, he forgot things he needed to remember and remembered things he needed to forget. He felt things. Sherlock saw into a people's minds; John saw into their hearts.

John often wondered, and it pained him, if Sherlock would miss him this much, had things been the other way around. If John had jumped off the roof as Sherlock watched. If John's last words had been ones that Sherlock knew were lies. Would the other man cry, like John did, when he thought of all the memories shared between the two of them, of the first time they met, and the last, of the times they had each other's backs when no one else would, and the times when it was just them, two men, who only had each other? Would Sherlock ask John to bring him a cup of tea, only to remember that the other man was buried in the ground? Would he smile bitterly at the little things, like John's nagging or would he wake up in the dead of night feeling alone, so alone. and afraid? Or would it be too sentimental? John did not know.

John only hoped that it hadn't hurt too much when Sherlock hit the ground.

As the clouds churned, dark and ominous, like a harbinger of something awful, John thought, again, about why Sherlock had done what he did.

Maybe Sherlock had really suffered up until that moment, and John had just been too blind to see it. Maybe he had been wrestling with his own demons, maybe he really thought that _no one_ saw him as good enough. Maybe he thought the world would really be better off without him. If he had, he was wrong, so very wrong. Maybe he couldn't see an end to his struggles, like a drowning man, too far out to see the shore. Maybe, in his mind, there was no other solution. Maybe, for him, the only way really was goodbye.

As John thought about Sherlock, as he watched the darkness of the day hug the earth, he couldn't help but think that Sherlock deserved more than shadows and grey clouds. He deserved the sun.

Sherlock thought about John. John, who could be looking up at the same dark grey sky. It was a bitter thought, that John could be so far away physically and yet so near to his heart.

For in the time Sherlock had spent away and isolated, he had realized some things. John, Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, all of them, they were his family. And he loved them, in a way that he could not explain, but he supposed he had no need. And he missed them, he missed them all so much. He even missed Mycroft, although he would never admit it. He longed to see their faces again, just once. He knew he could not, but he thought about them almost constantly, and they gave him both comfort and heartache, loneliness and hope. He had realized that sentiment was not a weakness. He was stronger now, more willing to fight, because he had something else to live for. Had it just been himself, he would have given up long ago. But now, he had purpose, and he would not, could not give up.

So as he watched the sky, he determined to be strong for the sake of others, and to fight until the strength left his body, until he either succeeded or his body lied in the streets, forgotten. But he would never, never quit.


	6. Back in the Atmosphere

Sherlock felt numb in the best way. It was not from unfeeling, but rather from feeling too much. His head was swimming, colors flashed and danced before his eyes, excitement pulsed beneath his skin, buzzing like bees. His heart was there, a strong thumping in his chest, and he tapped his foot to work off some of his unusual energy. And he was happy, so much so that he fought to keep a goofy grin from forming on his face, an impossible battle.

He had missed the city. The rush, the thrill of it all. He missed it so much he felt he could weep with relief, but he refrained.

And so he walked along, eyes darting everywhere, taking it all in, drinking it up like a parched man given water. His heart felt light, lighter than it had in years, and he felt it might float away if he wasn't careful. This was where he belonged.

His body ached, but he didn't care. He couldn't care, not when he was finally back.

He looked up, and a drop of rain splashed on his lips, and another on his eyebrow. His mouth curled, and he laughed, actually laughed, just from pure joy. He was finally done, and he could go home.

Sherlock walked in the rain until he reached Baker Street, smiling so much his face hurt, but he could not stop. He walked into the flat, growing suddenly nervous. He knew John would not be there, but he wondered how much had changed since he had last stood there, how much had been thrown out, and forgotten.

As he stepped inside, he looked around in amazement. It looked almost the exact same, although certainly dustier. Sherlock ran to the bathroom, and looked at the words that still held on the the mirror like he had held on to hope through the past years. Sherlock felt a wave of a strange emotion come over him, and he could only stare.

He was broken from his trance when he heard footsteps, and he turned to see Mrs Hudson. Her face changed from fear, to reverence, to anger, and finally joy. Sherlock smiled at her, opening his arms for her to embrace him.

She did, somewhat tearfully. She tries speaking, but it was clear that she didn't know what to say, so she just held him for a while, and Sherlock let her.

She let go, knowing that Sherlock was probably ready to go and find his other friends.

"Just- just don't leave again, understand?" she said, trying to sound stern, but choking over the last words. Sherlock just smiled wearily, shaking his head.

"I'm not sure I could." He spoke honestly and took his leave.

Sherlock didn't know where to find John. In years past, John would have been at the clinic, working, or right by Sherlock's side. But things change, and Sherlock had been distant for so long, he no longer knew what to expect.

He walked, seemingly aimlessly, thinking about where his friend could possibly be. There was a chance he would be at the clinic, but something told Sherlock that he would not find him there. But Sherlock didn't know whether he could trust his own self any longer on matters like these. He had been gone a long time. Far too long.

He walked and walked, going everywhere and nowhere, and after a while, his aches became noticeable, and he had the thought to hail a cab.

He attempted to do just that, but it seemed someone had gotten to it quicker. A man, middle aged, slight stature, sandy brown hair, and... Sherlock's eyes widened. He hurried over to the curb, wedging his way between the man and the cab, facing the man.

"Excuse me, but I really need this cab," he said, without a trace of apology. He glanced anxiously at John's face.

John sighed through his nose, opening his mouth to give a fragile response, but failing to do so as he looked at Sherlock blankly.

Sherlock felt something akin to pain, sharp and hot in his gut._ He's forgotten._

Sherlock knew he was being irrational. The likelihood of John forgetting him entirely was very slim, but part of him wondered it John thought it would be better to have nothing, no trace whatsoever, and to get rid of him entirely. And it hurt.

The next thing Sherlock noticed was anger. Hot, boiling anger, intense and bright. Aimed at him.

Good. Anger was good. _Anger is a secondary emotion,_ his brain supplied. Which meant John was feeling some other strong emotion, possibly relief or disbelief, and was only expressing it as anger.

Sherlock closed his eyes, expecting a blow, a punch, something. He didn't expect to be pulled into the cab.

Now it was just awkward. John was still angry, very much so, but Sherlock was happier than he had been in years. Neither man wanted to speak, and the air around them was tense.

"We're going to talk about this," John hissed, gritting his teeth guardedly, probably trying to control himself. "But not now."

Sherlock nodded, glad to hear John's voice after so long. It was the same, worn and hollow, but the same, and nothing had sounded so good in a long time.

"Of course we'll talk. You have questions, I have answers. And you're my blogger. What would be the point of going on an adventure if there was no one to tell the story?" Sherlock asked mildly, pensively.

John looked at him, startled, and then he nodded, swallowing thickly. "Right," he said, anger evaporating, for now.

John looked out the window, staring at, but not seeing, the cars and people go by. He felt overwhelmed. He was still angry, definitely, and also hurt, confused, and maybe relieved. But he couldn't deny that he was happy. He had missed his detective, more than anyone could know. He just hoped things wouldn't change too much since before all of this happened. Of course things would change, time had a funny way of doing that, but he hoped they would still be the very best of friends, through all time.

Sherlock looked at John, wondering what he was feeling. He was probably feeling sadness anew, fresher than the dull pain of the long years Sherlock was gone. It was strange, like reopening the wound once it had just started to heal. John would be glad to know Sherlock was safe, safe and alive, but seeing his face would haunt him for a while, having believed for so long that his friend was dead. It must have hurt him a lot, and Sherlock felt a twinge of guilt, even if it had been unavoidable. John's shoulders were stiffened, as though he was worried about something. Worried that Sherlock didn't need him anymore, as their encounter had, after all, been accidental.

And Sherlock realized that John really did care, perhaps more than Sherlock deserved, and the knowledge lit a little flame of happiness in his chest, small and warm.


	7. The Arms of Tomorrow

When the cab reached Baker Street, Sherlock hopped out, looking uncharacteristically apologetic as John paid the driver. Sherlock waited for John to catch up before starting up the stairs. He held the door open for John, waiting eagerly for an expression of gratitude, but John just brushed by. Sherlock frowned momentarily, but he brightened when he realized that this was the first time in years he and John had been back home.

"It still looks the same as I remember," Sherlock said conversationally, to break the silence. John hummed. Sherlock tried again. "I would have thought you would throw most of my stuff away, or at the very least cleaned up a bit around here," he pressed, looking to John for a reaction. "Why didn't you?"

John's eyes flicked to Sherlock and then away once more. "Hurt too much," he said briefly, shrugging.

Sherlock stood still. "You... really care that much?" He asked, swallowing thickly.

John faced him, a bitter smile on his face.

"Of course I care," he said emphatically. "You may not understand, but I-"

"No," Sherlock interrupted vehemently. "You're wrong John." His voice was hollow and distant. "I understand. I understand so well."

Their eyes connected, John's showing surprise and tenderness, Sherlock's full of fire and passion.

"Why did you do it?" John finally broke, needing to know the answer.

"I had to," Sherlock said quietly, nearly a whisper. "It was the only way."

"The only way to beat Moriarty?" John asked, growing angry. "And you couldn't have told me? You couldn't have told me that you weren't dead?" His voice shook, and Sherlock flinched at the years of agony that were resurfacing. "Do you have any idea how much pain I was in because of you? I died that day!" He shouted. "And now it doesn't matter, because you've been alive this whole time and you, you didn't even tell me," he ended brokenly. Sherlock felt so guilty, although it had been unavoidable.

"I did tell you." Sherlock's voice was no more than the tiniest breath, so soft John nearly missed it. John's face reflected hurt and confusion. "I did tell you," Sherlock said louder. "The mirror. Surely you saw. Please tell me you saw," Sherlock nearly begged.

John was shocked. All this time, Sherlock really had tried to tell John. He tried to make things right, as right as they could be, and John just wasn't able to see it.

"I," John began, breathing in deeply. "So that's what you meant. I guess I just never understood," he admitted, completely defeated.

Sherlock was silent. Here was John, his best friend, his only friend, completely broken and worn. And it was Sherlock's fault.

"John," Sherlock said, waiting for John to turn his head. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, I never meant to hurt you, but I have, and I can't tell you how awful I feel. But please believe me when I say that I had no other option."

Sherlock's eyes shone with emotion and sincerity, and John couldn't be mad, not truly. But part of John broke when he saw the little drops of water fall from those eyes. In that moment, he realized that it's often the strongest people who are the most fragile.

John didn't know what to do. This was Sherlock. Sherlock never showed remorse, never apologized. And he never, never cried. And it made John _hurt_.

John stepped forward gently, seeing Sherlock's pleading face, silently begging for forgiveness that John had already given. John opened his arms, and seconds later, Sherlock was clinging to the front of his shirt, head buried in his shoulder, whispering "I'm sorry, so so sorry," over and over, and John felt his own eyes grow damp.

"Sherlock, it's okay. I'm not mad. You're here now, that's what matters," John whispered, holding Sherlock gently. Sherlock shook his head violently.

"It's not okay. I hurt you. You didn't deserve that. I left you, and I-"

"Sherlock," John said sternly. "Sherlock listen to me." Sherlock's apologies faded. "Look at me," John commanded, and Sherlock lifted his head up to look at John, his eyes red and teary. John hated seeing his friend so broken. "Do you trust me?" He asked more gently. Sherlock nodded. Of course he trusted John. He trusted him with his life. "Then believe me when I tell you it's okay. It's alright because I'm saying it's alright. The past doesn't matter anymore. There's only the future from here, and we can't face that if you can't forgive yourself. It's okay Sherlock, because I forgive you."

Sherlock blinked. Once, twice. John was truly an amazing person. Sherlock hugged him, surprising them both.

"John, I-" He didn't know what to say. He didn't have words to express his gratitude. "I-"

"I know, Sherlock. I know." John had never thought of Sherlock as being a very emotional person, but now, he had opened up to John in ways neither of them could have expected.

"Isn't this a bit, er, sentimental?" John said lightly, trying to ease the mood.

Sherlock laughed. "You knew what, John. You've always been right, about emotional matters. Sentiment is not a weakness. It's the greatest form of strength. The strongest heroes are the ones that have something to fight for."

John smiled. He was so glad Sherlock was back, even if he had spent all that time suffering. That hardly mattered now.

John went into the kitchen to make tea, smiling because life was good.


End file.
